


wanna be your vacuum cleaner

by buzzcutliam



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, good things happen at 3 am basically, liam likes mac and cheese, zayn likes to write and stargaze
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:16:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buzzcutliam/pseuds/buzzcutliam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>where nobody can sleep and there's macaroni, stars, and maybe something more.<br/>(or, the first time zayn meets liam)</p>
            </blockquote>





	wanna be your vacuum cleaner

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic ever and it's all a bit surreal aha but feedback's always appreciated :) thanks for reading xx  
> disclaimer: i don't own one direction and none of this is real, you know the deal etc etc  
> title comes from 'i wanna be yours' by the arctic monkeys

it’s three am is the thing. and zayn’s never been good with closing his eyes and counting sheep or breathing deep until his brain catches up with how tired his body is. so he pulls on his shoes, grabs his journal, and gets out of the room before louis wakes up and throws a fit about ‘getting his 8 hours’ and ‘beauty sleep, malik, some of us care’.

and that’s why zayn’s in the dorm lounge at some obscene hour of the night, reclining against the spotted red couch. he’s sketching his hand, trying to catch the curves and dips of his palm, but it doesn't help him relax; doesn’t distract him from the hum in his chest pushing against his lungs so he can’t breathe right unless he focuses. there are some kind of nerves building inside of him but he can’t place them. it’s just—

he’s not homesick. it’s a month into uni and he misses his mum and his dad and even his sisters, surprisingly—but he’s not homesick. he’s always been good with being alone; always joked about how he _can’t_ be homesick if he _is_ his own home. but—

he just can’t help the feeling under his skin right now, like he needs to get out of his own body, like he needs to run until he feels like he’s burning from the inside, like he needs an escape or a release of some sort.

so he let’s out a frustrated sigh and closes his journal, throwing it on the floor next to him helplessly. a growl escapes his throat as he slides down, lying on the carpet, running his hands through his hair when—

“you alright?” zayn startles at the voice, scrambles up, blushing.

“uh yeah, i’m just,” he stops, looking at the boy. and he’s, well, he’s gorgeous. he’s seen him around campus and in the halls but never straight on and never with his quirked up cherry lips aimed at zayn. he’s got chocolate hair matted against his forehead, eyes crinkling in both concern and amusement. and he’s looking expectantly at zayn (and, zayn realizes, mortified, his probably gaping mouth) when he clears his throat. “it’s three,” zayn says as an explanation. “i can’t sleep.”

at that, the boy laughs, his eyes closing into crescents and, fuck, if zayn wasn’t gone before, he’s definitely gone now. “neither can i.” he offers, shrugging.

zayn lets out a strangled “ha” as the boy moves around him to the tiny kitchen at the end of the room. he’s got a pack of easy mac under one arm and a few of comics held in the other.

“d’you want some macaroni?” he asks, back turned as he opens one carton.

“um,” zayn doesn’t, really. been trying to cut down on the carbs if he’s being totally honest but when fit boys in tank tops ask you to share pasta, he’s pretty sure you say yes. “yeah, sure, yeah.”

and zayn hears the crinkle of the plastic wrap being pulled off and the hum of the microwave and the shuffle of feet until the boy is sitting down next to him, one bowl held out.

zayn takes it, slow, hesitant.

“i’m liam, by the way.” the boy says chewing around his fork.

“zayn,” zayn says, blowing cool air over the steaming bowl. and then, “thanks.”

“not a problem.” and they sit in silence for a bit, chewing, until zayn feels bad about being shit at small talk. so he tries:

“so, what are you majoring in?” it comes out awkwardly—he’s hyperaware of how liam’s shoulders are brushing against his and how he’s in his worst pair of sweats and a ratty jonas brothers tour shirt—but it’s something, at least.

liam turns to him, an amused expression playing on his face, until he says “music production.” and then he shrugs, “i sing a bit, but i want to, like, learn everything about music and making music, like it’s fascinating, i think?” he’s smiling now, and so is zayn. “what about you?” he nudges zayn’s knees with a hand.

“creative writing,” zayn says with a laugh. and then seriously, “i’m very passionate about being unemployed.”

liam laughs at that, head tilted back, with his eyes crinkling like they had at the door. zayn’s stomach flutters but only it doesn’t because he’s not a fucking 12 year old girl.

“so you can’t sleep?” liam says when he’s caught his breath. “too busy planning the next great british novel?”

“yeah if the next great british novel’s a shit drawing of my hand.” zayn deadpans.

“could be a metaphor for life,” liam offers. zayn sticks his tongue out at him. “a picture’s worth a thousand words and that,” liam continues waggling his eyebrows at zayn.

“yeah, yeah, why don’t you write yourself a lullaby, music major,” and zayn’s cringing because he’s sure he’s about as funny as one of those popsicle stick jokes but it doesn’t matter when liam’s laughing again; knocking his shoulders against zayn’s.

and zayn feels at ease. but, he guesses, that’s what three o clock and shitty boxed macaroni and wonderful tanned brown-eyed boys do.

in the quiet that follows, the hum in his chest’s gone but he’s buzzing with another kind of energy.

he swallows another mouthful of pasta and turns to liam.

“d’you wanna see something?”

liam tilts his head in a way that makes zayn think so much of a puppy but he refuses because it’s cliche and he’s better than cliches.

“what d’you mean?”

and even though zayn’s sure this would sound absurd in any other circumstance, liam’s not refusing or scoffing and that’s enough for zayn to stand up, smiling, and reach a hand down for him. “it’s cool, i promise, yeah? come on.”

and liam doesn’t object. just takes zayn’s hand with his amused smile (like zayn’s some sort of precious mystery but zayn doesn’t want to think about what the upward tilt of his lips might mean, not tonight).

and he keeps his hand in zayn’s as zayn drags him through the dorm halls and outside their building and even further down around the back until they reach the quad. the air’s surprisingly warm for october—breezy but not uncomfortable. the quad’s pretty bare with only a few benches but the grass is soft and the trees are turning a gorgeous shade of orange and it feels like home, almost.

zayn looks up, his hand still grasped in liam’s, at the scattered stars till liam follows his gaze. he takes a deep inhale of the sharp autumn air, trying to count the specks of light.

“back home,” zayn starts, a bit breathless (partly from the walk but mostly from the way liam’s hand feels warm against his). “when i couldn’t go to sleep,” he continues, sneaking a look at liam’s profile, “i’d just lie down on the ground and, like, stargaze.”

“yeah?” and liam’s voice is soft and even though zayn’s not looking at him now, he feels liam’s eyes trailing his face.

“yeah, like, i dunno, it’d calm me down?” he sneaks another look at liam—shy, this time. and liam’s smiling at him so softly that zayn has to look back up or he’s sure his cheeks are actually going to catch on fire. “like just thinking about the universe and how big it is and how, did you know, that you’re kinda looking back in time? like with the stars they’re existing in the past and you’re just here, like,” zayn trails off, running out of breath. “i’m rambling,” he finishes, blushing.

“no, no that’s incredible,” liam says breathlessly. “that’s fascinating,” and maybe, to zayn, that sounds a little like he’s saying zayn’s fascinating.

and they’re so close, hands still clasped together, heads turned towards each other, inches away from kissing and zayn’s holding his breath because he wants this, he does, but he met the guy half an hour ago and—

zayn goes to sit down on the grass, pulling liam with him.

“yeah, it kinda is,” he says, stretching along the grass.

“yeah, it kinda is,” liam repeats, a laugh in his voice as he settles next to zayn.

and it’s four in the morning is the thing. and zayn’s not sure how he ended up lying on the quad next to a boy with kind eyes and a warm smile. but liam’s twining their fingers together and it feels like what zayn thinks beginnings are supposed to feel like and he can’t complain, really. not even a bit.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr: buzzzcutliam.tumblr.com xx


End file.
